


[the sound of silence]

by runnyc33



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: AU, F/M, Hard of Hearing Tessa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2019-12-18 03:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18241076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runnyc33/pseuds/runnyc33
Summary: What if one half of the greatest ice dance team was hard of hearing?





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a story that’s very close to my heart.
> 
> Sign is “translated” to written English, rather than reflecting how it would be signed. If you’re Deaf, please let me know if anything is inaccurate. I’m HoH but not Deaf and I am aware that there are distinctions between our experiences.

Setting foot on the ice during Saturday morning advanced classes requires steady nerves of steel.

The chaos weaves with the rise and fall of activity, as children gleefully scrape across the ice in brightly coloured helmets. Two groups of youngsters are neatly supervised by coaches, running through drills of new skills with varying degrees of success.

A third group is contained in the corner of the rink, its boundaries defined by bright orange cones with yellow chains draped between them. Inside, students “practice” their skills from their class. For most, however, practicing involves chasing each other at breakneck speeds, in toe-pick-heavy motions. Each seems seconds from falling even as the students giggle, arms outstretched to tag their friends.

One lone skater eschews the disorder.

The small eight-year-old girl is dressed in sleek black layers that insulate her from the chill, tights pulled neatly over her clean white boots.

Standing still, her head is slightly cocked. Faintly, if she concentrates, she hears the strains of music that must be filling the arena. But it’s quiet murmurs between crescendos, dullness accented by strong bass beats that hit her skin and skitter along it. Her eyes close as the sound washes over her, and she delicately examines it, picking out the strains, the rhythms.

Her eyes flutter open, blinking against the harsh bright lighting of the arena. On an exhale, her body moves, a single pump of her leg generating speed.

A beat _there,_ accented by a strong toe pick. A crescendo she spins along, tightening as it gets louder, and arching out of gracefully when it dies away.

Soft strains she knows must be singing, the sounds mushing together into nonsense, are accompanied by the swish of her blades carving through ice. To create rhythm, she leans one way, then the other, each edge accompanied by a vibration that travels through her soles, up her legs, into her body, filling it with purpose. Her fingers dance to each side of her body, light strumming movements twitching out unheard details high above the strong curve of her blade on the ice below. She feels the slight missteps, the foot placed down a little too quickly, the edge that’s not quite under her weight, the lack of a knee bend, but to her, she’s improvising that gold medal-worthy skate.

The song ends with a loud bass chord, held until it fades out. She strikes a pose – hands stretched above her head, apart, outstretched as though celebrating in triumph, her left leg crossed behind her right, the toe pick digging into the ice sharply – and closes her eyes, letting the chord continue to reverberate through her body. When it falls away, silence slips in, embracing her in its grasp.

It’s like coming home – it’s a curse and a blessing all at once.

Her eyes stay shut even as the next song starts.

A tap on her shoulder causes her to jump backwards, startled.

It’s a boy, with dark hair hanging shaggy around his head. He wears baggy shorts over his leggings, she notes, and his grey t-shirt is a hand-me-down that’s two sizes too big, Ilderton Hockey emblazoned in loud red letters across the front. She recognizes him: a good skater, in the other advanced class, with edges she tries valiantly to copy. He’s about her age, she thinks, maybe a couple of years older – just a tad taller than her, but brash, confident. His stance is wide, and he shifts comfortably on the ice, letting his skates scrape the surface. And too late, she realizes, as he waves a hand in front of her face and frowns, he’s been talking to her.

“Sorry, what?” she says.

As he speaks this time, she studies him closely - his lips remind her of someone, she thinks, but she’s not sure who, she’s trying to figure it out even as she listens - and the words spring into her mind, just milliseconds after he says them. “The Zamboni’s trying to get on the ice.”

She wheels around, and sure enough, a slightly overweight man stands on the side of the rink, arms crossed over his chest. Her cheeks redden; trust her to get lost in the silence and forget the real world exists. “Sorry,” she mutters softly to the boy, her head hanging low, and then to the man by the Zamboni, even though she knows he can’t possibly hear her.

She sprints off to the side and into the stands. Tears prickle in her eyes as she flees. It’s just so easy to _forget_ sometimes, that she needs to keep her eyes open, she needs to listen, needs to stay aware.

Sitting on the bench, hunched over, fists pressed to her eyes, willing the tears not to fall, a hand taps on her shoulder. _What have I missed now?_

The boy stands next to her, a slight furrow to his brow. “What’s wrong?” he asks, and she shrugs. She doesn’t like to tell new people if she doesn’t have to. She doesn’t see why she can’t be _normal_ , if she could just pay close enough attention, just listen well enough. Her mother tells her that she is normal, but she thinks her mother might be just a tad delusional, her own hearing loss colouring her judgment.

He moves her duffel bag with her skate gear from the seat next to her. . In the newly cleared space, he sits, looking out towards the ice. She wants to look away from him, wants to bury her face back in her hands, or watch the Zamboni smooth away the imperfections on the ice, but he might start talking again.

Sure enough, he does. “My name’s Scott,” he says, and it clicks. Oh! Scott Moir. Of course, everyone knows the Moirs at this rink. Huh, she thinks. He talks like his aunt, not his mother.

He turns and looks at her, and she remembers she’s supposed to reply. “I’m Tessa.”

“Hey, Tessa.”

She smiles brightly at him in response.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

A long silence lingers as Tessa considers her reply. Boys are loud and they like to tease; and she wants him to think of her as normal, just like him, just like everyone else, for a little while longer.

But his face is open, his eyes watching her carefully, an easy smile on his lips. Maybe this boy will be different; maybe he really wants to know.

Sighing, her hands move over the signs as she speaks the reply. “I’m hard of hearing. Sometimes I forget to use words.”

Scott’s eyes widen for a moment, a brief moment of innocent surprise, before a grin spreads across his face. “Hey! I wish my brothers didn’t speak so much! You think you could teach them?”

“Or maybe you should speak less,” she replies, a small smile teasing at the edges of her mouth, and he laughs out loud.

“Oh ouch!” His laughter demonstrates he’s not truly insulted. He grabs her right hand, before pulling her up the stairs to where his aunt Carol, her coach, stands.

“Hey Scott, Tessa,” she says, her gaze immediately falling on their joined hands. Tessa smiles and smooths her free left hand over her clothes, wanting to look put together for her coach.

Scott squeezes her hand tightly once as he speaks. “Is this who you wanted me to skate with?” he asks. Tessa furrows her brows, confused. Skate with him? She wasn’t aware she was supposed to be skating with anyone. He’s such a _boy_ , with that weird shorts and leggings combo, the messy hair, but his smile is nice. She thinks she wouldn’t mind too much if she had to skate with him.

While she’s lost in her thoughts, she misses his aunt’s reply, but his reply is loud, excited, dancing at the edge of her hearing. “Alright!” he exclaims. He turns to her. “When they get off the ice, want to race around the edge?”

She smiles back at him. “Do you really think you can catch me?”

His laughter warms her skin. “You’re on.”

* * *

Slowly, Tessa and Scott learn to skate together. They learn that partnership is not about who can skate faster, or complete more rotations in a spin, or jump higher. (Although, Tessa thinks, competition sure is what makes it fun.)

Partnership is about moving smoothly as one, supporting each other and creating a singular picture. Carol chooses to teach this lesson by using a single finger, a stern look on her face as she holds it up in front of them. “Unity,” she declares, the words solemn and serious.

From behind his aunt’s back, Scott peeps around, holding up a single finger, and mouthing “farts”. Tessa immediately doubles over, hands on her knees, as laughter shakes her frame.

“In order to create cohesion,” Carol continues, swatting her nephew behind her back until he skates up next to Tessa, “you must communicate. Only through communication can you blend from Tessa and Scott into “Tessa-and-Scott”, an ice dance team.”

A frown plays across Scott’s face, but his eyes sparkle. “Alright then, Tess,” he says, and they go into hold, before he grabs her hands and skates backwards as quickly as he can, dragging her behind him. “Let’s blend by going at warp speed!” Giggles sound out from the two, before Tessa squeezes his hand gently, conveying they should start the pattern for real.

Even as they swing across the ice, they still giggle to themselves, squeezing each others’ hands, trying to outdo their partner’s edges. Carol shakes her head from the boards, but watches them carefully, noting the things that should be improved on the next run through.

Their communication is laughter and smiles, but Carol wants it to be serious and pointed.

Tessa thinks that might be more feasible if you spoke the same language.

* * *

They adjust, slowly. Hours on the ice in dedicated coaching sessions bleeds into on-ice “practice”, then bleeds into off-ice adventures.

One day, Scott informs Tessa he will now touch her on the arm before he speaks, when she’s not looking at him already; he’s figured out a solution so that his truly spectacular jokes will be adequately appreciated.

Tessa smiles at him, but can’t resist a jab. “I’m not sure I want to be hearing all your jokes, Scott.”

His face turns solemn, a hand over his chest. “I cannot stand the fact you might miss something so important as my jokes!”

Tessa rolls her eyes at him, but he follows through on his promise. Every time his hand rubs her arm, warmth spreads across her chest. None of her other hearing friends do that for her.

Tessa, too, adjusts; her language becomes increasingly vocalized. No longer does she have to rely on the tingling of her fingers to tell her to speak; words come to her tongue and her fingers together. It bleeds into her whole life. Before, days would go by without her saying a word aloud, but now she speaks along with her signing everywhere but at home.

Understanding Scott becomes easier and easier too, learning the nuances of his expressions, the idioms he uses. She delights the first time he tells her he’s just talked to her without saying a word out loud – likes the feeling of it being a secret between them, that she knows his lips well enough to read them like letters on a piece of paper.

* * *

Carol challenges them to take on their very first competition, a Western Ontario Sectional event where they’ll need to perform three loops of a swing pattern. Tessa and Scott exchange a quick glance, before eagerly saying yes.

Over the following weeks, they dutifully practice the required swing dance. Tessa becomes obsessed, dancing through the hallways at school, through her bedroom, memorizing the exact timing of each move of her feet, each swing of her upper body. Scott, on the other hand, is confident in their ability and limits his practice to the ice.

Even there, much to Tessa’s dismay, he insists on his normal antics. Tessa places her hands on her hips and fixes a fierce glare on her face, as Scott skates in wide circles around her, before he swings close and grabs her hand. “Let’s race,” he says.

“Scott, we’re supposed to be practicing!” she admonishes.

“I promise, after this, ok?”

Tessa sighs. Her body tenses in anticipation, even as she pretends to still be put out. “I don’t know,” she drawls, before quickly she adds, “How are you going to take it when I win?” She heads out at a sprint, leaving Scott struggling to catch up.

He does and they cross the line together, before Scott catches a toe pick and topples forward, head over heels, skidding across the ice. She rushes towards him, but he looks up at her with a grin on his face, and she skids to a hockey stop, spraying snow over him.

“Alright,” he says, as he brushes the snow off his clothes. “We can practice now that I won.” Tessa rolls her eyes as she offers her hand, pulling him to his feet and into position.

Tessa learns to allow Scott moments of levity, learns that they give him the space he needs to focus..

And, Tessa learns, it would be helpful if she memorizes his steps as well as hers, as she feels them slipping into the wrong pattern during the competition. “Scott! It’s the swing!” she hisses. His face reads dismay as he mouths back to her, “I only remember these steps!”

Their second competition, they decide, will go better. For once, Scott assures her he knows his steps this time, his tone apologetic. And if he doesn’t, she assures him as they step on the ice for the warm up, she knows them for him.

They’re the first to skate in their group, so they spend their last minute of the warm up at the boards. Tessa’s hands smooth over her dress one final time, before arranging her guards neatly on the boards. Scott stands next to her, his leg jangling against hers each time he shakes it out. He’s babbling away to his aunt, a low murmur in the background.

She ignores it, focusing on the steady stream of air rushing through her lungs. Her hands rest on the boards, and she wants to memorize their feeling below her hands. She feels the hum of the cooling machines through the boards; it’s comforting, as though it’s speaking to her. She thinks for a moment that Scott would do well if he could tap into this, if he could feel the low vibrations that rumble through the world, rather than the loud chaos he seems to embrace.

She tugs on his hand then, making him turn to her. He falls silent as he looks at her. She presses her hand to her chest, before touching his. It’s a wordless gesture, but he knows what it means, grinning down at her. He signs the words then - “thank you” - and she breathes deeply before a brilliant smile spreads across her face. It’s the first thing he’s ever signed to her. “Thank you,” she signs back, and then he’s squeezing her hand three times, their signal that their names are being announced, and she skates to center ice, his hand in hers.

He signs it again when they’re on the podium in first place, stooping to receive the medals around their necks.

Tessa never wants this feeling to go away.

* * *

During an afternoon practice session, Carol, Alma, Paul MacIntosh, and her mother stand together at the boards, heads bent towards each other with serious expressions on their faces. Tessa nudges Scott as they stroke around the rink, easing into another run of their pattern. “What do you think that’s about?”

Scott shrugs. “Probably us moving to new coaches.”

Tessa stops, letting go of Scott’s hands. “New coaches?” she asks. “Why?”

“Yeah, I overheard my mom talking about it, that we’re getting too good for Aunt Carol and if we want to keep going, we gotta get serious.”

Thoughts whirl through Tessa’s hand as Scott reaches out for her hands and starts the pattern. She supposes it makes sense – they couldn’t stay in this little local rink forever – but it’s a shock, and she resents the fact that Scott already knew.

But, by the end of the pattern, she’s smiling, because they’ve just executed it perfectly, and she knows this is the right move.

Paul MacIntosh is the obvious choice, already working with Danny and Sheri, and the choice is cemented after a single trial run at his rink in Kitchener-Waterloo. Scott latches onto Paul’s meticulous eye for detail, and he considers it a personal victory every time he’s able to make the man laugh. Tessa, for her part, immediately warms to Paul’s assistant, Suzanne, when she notices Suzanne restraining Paul’s critiques until Tessa is watching, a small nod signaling Paul cancontinue.

“A grand new adventure!” Scott says, bouncing in the car as they head back to London afterwards. Tessa smiles, Scott’s energy infectious, and looks out the car window at the scenery rushing by. A grand new adventure, she thinks, and a coach who’s watching out for her specifically.

That night, the families gather, and Tessa displays a poster presentation on why this is the best choice for them, as Scott bounces around the room talking about the intricacies of Paul’s technical coaching and Suzanne’s artistry. It’s that weekend when they get the call that Paul’s willing to take them on, and immediately the families say yes.

In the end, Tessa’s not sure whether they agreed simply to stop them from annoying them any longer.

The move means early morning rides once a week, the duties split between the four parents so each has one day of shuttling the two young ice dancers the hundred kilometers to Kitchener.

On their first morning practice, Tessa and Scott establish their routine. Once they’re both properly situated, they count out one, two, three fingers, before leaning into towards each other, pillows sandwiched between them, and promptly fall asleep.

Alma, who hadn’t wanted to miss the first session, looks at the children in the backseat and smiles. “These are our children,” she signs to Kate.

Kate smiles, as she replies, “We love them.”

* * *

It takes no time before Tessa’s fully in love with Suzanne. She copies all her mannerisms and follows her around at the rink. She studies how Suzanne writes her letters and in her homework she tries to copy that exact loop of the “y”, the fact every “r” is capitalized.

Suzanne is the first person who instinctively understands how Tessa skates. They’re choreographing a program, and Tessa cannot get a step right – can’t feel how it fits into the low sound piping out from the speakers. It doesn’t match, not to her. Paul makes her drill it, over and over, but it’s not a matter of not knowing _how_ to do it. She can’t understand why she _should_.

Tessa swallows against the emotion bubbling up when she messes up for a tenth time. She can feel the annoyance radiating from Scott, but she’s not sure how to vocalize what’s wrong, so she pushes away from him and heads to the boards.

A hand smooths along her back, and she looks up at Suzanne’s kind face. Tessa averts her gaze back down to the ice. “I’m sorry. Your choreography is beautiful; I promise I’ll figure it out.”

Suzanne kneels, forcing Tessa to look her in the eyes. “You don’t feel it, do you?”

Tessa nods. “It just doesn’t fit.”

Suzanne studies her, before pulling out the remote for the speakers. She clicks the music on again, and increases the volume slightly. “Show me.” Tessa breathes deeply, before beginning to move. She runs through the existing choreography, but instead of the short hop that’s prescribed, she places a long glide there, looping together the two strong drum sounds in the music playing overhead.

She stops when the song ends.

Suzanne studies her, a curious look on her face. “Can we try another piece of music, Tessa?”

She nods. Suzanne cues up something. Tessa stands still for a moment, trying to see if there’s anything familiar to tell her what song it is. There isn’t, so she shifts to looking for the common beats. There, and there, and there. The music floats, in and out, along that constant pace. She starts to move, skating towards the far side of the rink, and slowly circles into a step sequence. She flicks her blade, shifting to a backwards outside edge on a down beat, extends her free leg out horizontally during the silence, and curves into a spin when the music lifts again.

Suzanne smiles at her when she stops. Even Scott and Paul have ceased their conversation and are watching her. Scott’s mouth is slightly agape, and it makes him look foolish, childish. Tessa could laugh at it, but she’s suddenly exhausted, drained and exposed. When Tessa gets to Suzanne’s side, the woman pulls her in for a hug, arms tightening around her, before pushing her back, hands placed firmly on each shoulder. “Tessa Virtue, you are an artist.” Tessa feels the colour rising on her cheeks.

Suzanne’s hands squeeze her shoulders slightly, accenting the words. “Any time you think there’s a movement we should change, tell me, okay? And we’ll change it.” Tessa nods, solemnly. She knows this is the height of a choreographer’s trust.

She pulls Suzanne closer again, her cheek pressing against her coach’s warm torso. It feels safe here, safer than trying to stand out there on the ice alone.

Safer than trying to explain to people who don’t understand.

* * *

Shortly after her ninth birthday, on the day of her annual audiology exam, Tessa learns that her whole life could be different.

It’s an ordinary Wednesday - almost too ordinary to register at first - a check-up under the glare of fluorescent lights, with the faint smell of disinfectant around her. Her audiologist, Dr. Rebecca, sends mechanical sounds through the little soundproof room she’s been closed into - she imagines there’s a lock on the door, no possibility of escape – and Tessa raises her hand dutifully to signify, _yes, she’s heard that one_. Her audiologist’s face changes on occasion, a raise of the eyebrow, after she raises her hand - or fails to - and she stresses over the possibility of a wrong answer.

Since it’s not a particularly engaging task, Tessa’s eyes wander around the booth, picking out the lamp she’s seen there since she was a baby. She thinks that maybe at two years old it was a comfort, but now she knows she’ll have to see that creepy egg lamp with a painted face grimacing at her each year. She stares at it in resentment while Dr. Rebecca tells her she’ll be reading a list of words out loud and Tessa is to repeat them back to her, best as she can. It’s easier to stare at an egg that Tessa imagines could easily come to life, murder them all - but first her, of course, locked into this small room - than to stare at the piece of paper covering her audiologist’s lips, keeping her from understanding.

Eventually, she’s released from her prison. She sits in the office as her mother and her audiologist discuss the results. Her legs swing as they hang from the chair, her gaze ping-ponging between the two adults, following their hands in rapid motion.

Dr. Rebecca is adamant. “She’s hearing more than you think she is.”

Tessa watches as her mother’s hands fly, anger clouding her expression. “Just because you think the only way to operate in the world is to be hearing…”

Dr. Rebecca cuts in quickly. “No! What I’m saying is it’s an option for her. Her hearing loss is moderate to severe, not profound. She _could_ be part of the hearing world in a way that’s not an option for you or your other children.”

“She is Deaf,” Kate signs. “I won’t let you take her culture from her. We’re done.”

She tugs Tessa’s hand strongly, and ushers her out of the office.

Could I hear? Tessa thinks to herself. What would that be like?

That night, she lies in bed studying the ceiling tiles. She remembers the sound of conversation humming around her, the feeling of wanting to reach out and hear it more fully when it dances at the edge of her consciousness. It’s like having something in the corner of her eyesight – and all she longs to do is to turn her head and be able to look at it more fully.

She wonders what Scott’s laughter sounds like. When he laughs while her hands rest on his shoulders, it rumbles across his body, low – what would it be like to hear that sound fully? Does it sound like an earthquake, trembling? What secrets are hidden inside of it?

That night, she dreams of thunderstorms – the lightning cracks open the sky and instead of the rumble of thunder, she feels Scott’s laughter, all around her.

* * *

The next day, Scott comes to the car, a large, clumsily wrapped present peeking out from behind his back.

Tessa’s lips quirk when she realizes the paper’s been ripped, or maybe crumpled, and that someone’s put copious amounts of scotch tape over these sections in a valiant – and ultimately fruitless – attempt to save the wrapping.

“Here,” Scott says, his eyes meeting Tessa’s and then darting away as he thrusts the huge gift out in front of him. “I saw it and I thought of you and Mom let me buy it with an advance on my allowance.” He grins then. “You better like it or else I’m making you come over and help me with the chores.”

“Thank you, Scott,” she says, ripping into the packaging with relish. Out spills a Marvin the Martian pillow, and she smiles down at it, hugging it slightly. It’s a little odd – nothing about her particularly screams Marvin – but it’s soft and cuddly.

Scott scuffs the ground with his shoe. “You know, we do all this driving and sleeping, and I just thought you should have a pillow of your own instead of whichever odd one is lying around.”

She hugs it a little tighter then, burying her nose into the fabric. It’s new, but it still smells faintly of the Moir home – she wonders if Alma washed it first in their detergent. “I love it, Scott.” Her hand outstretched, he takes it with a grin. “Let’s go test it out.”

Tessa thinks it may have been the best she’s slept ever slept in the car.

* * *

The envelope in her hands is larger than she thought it would be, and thicker too. Her fingers trace the ridges of the embossed logo on the envelope, swirling over the cursive letters. National Ballet School of Canada, it spells.

She had applied on a whim, really. Her ballet teacher had told her she should consider it, and she loves her ballet teacher, so she did.

Her mother is the one who rips it open and reads the cover letter, fingers shaking slightly when she puts it down. “You’re in,” she signs, and Tessa doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She never thought she’d get accepted.

But it’s the National Ballet, and she says yes, and then she tells Scott at practice that she won’t be there for the entire summer session, even though they’ve just started working with Paul and Suzanne. Instead, she’ll be spending the month of July in Toronto, dancing.

“Alright,” he says, and she thinks it’s the least he’s spoken to her in years.

“Alright,” she replies.

His hand feels foreign in hers after that, and she longs for the smooth wood of the barre.

It’s when she’s there, at the barre, with all the other lucky children around her, and she shivers, and expects to feel strong arms wrap around her and rub up and down her arms, that she realizes she doesn’t want ballet anymore.

She wants him, and her skates, and the cold of the rink, and big gloves, and bombastic music, and set patterns, and endless twizzles.

Her first love has been replaced by her second.

It’s easy, then, to turn down the National Ballet’s offer when it comes that fall, forego being the first Deaf student they’ve ever invited to join them – something they remind her of gently in a second follow-up letter, as though she’s not already aware that she’s the first – in favour of stroking around the rink, pursuing excellence with Scott.

* * *

She tells Scott this during his birthday party. They sit high in a tree in his parents’ backyard, hiding from Danny, the reluctant seeker in their game of Hide and Seek. Scott’s back is against the trunk of the tree, knees pulled into his body, and Tessa lies on the curve of the branch, her legs wrapped around the limb to keep her steady.

Silence stretches between them, as they hear shouts from in the house where someone must have been found.

Tessa breaks it first. “I got the spot in the National Ballet,” she says.

Scott’s eyes turn dark, and he pulls his legs closer to his body, but his words betray nothing. “Hey, congrats T. You’re a born dancer; they’re lucky to have you.”

“No,” she says, and he looks up at her. “I turned them down.”

“You _what_?” His eyes are wide, incredulous.

“I want to skate with you,” she says. She’d turn down the National Ballet School a hundred more times to see that smile on Scott’s face, brightening his expression.

“I want to skate with you,” he replies.

“So we’re agreed? We’re skating together.”

“I’d give you a handshake to seal the deal, but I think we might both fall out of the tree,” Scott jokes.

The silence falls between them again, but suddenly the air seems alive with possibility. Tessa daydreams, her eyes closed, of the wind in her hair as they flawlessly execute their dance, the cheers of the crowd urging them on. Maybe, she thinks, maybe they could even win a gold medal like the Russians did at the Olympics.

Her eyes open, and she studies Scott, who is very carefully peering over the edge of the branch, his arm wrapped around the central trunk to keep his balance. Nah, she thinks, they might never get Olympic gold. But having a partner is worth it – even when he’s swearing at his brother below, who must’ve found them.

“Danny found us,” he grumbles, “but he won’t come up to seek us properly. Coward.”

Scott extends his hand, helping her crawl closer to the trunk and down onto the one below. Tessa’s foot slips slightly as she struggles to find purchase on the branch below, and Scott’s grip on her wrist tightens. “I’ve got you.”

Yes, Tessa thinks, having a partner is worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to awakeanddreaming and falsettodrop for your beta work... you've made this piece readable!
> 
> My endless gratitude goes to virtueoso, whose love for this piece has kept me going even when it's felt like an insurmountable, impossible task. I am so thankful that someone cares as much about this little story as I do.


	2. Chapter 2

Excellence, Tessa finds, is intoxicating.

The craving drives her forward, chasing after that next high.  Hot chocolate after practice with Scott quickly morphs into the two of them tugging out the old mattress in the basement so they can practice new lift positions.  Hallways at school are prime opportunities to practice step sequences, dancing through the throngs of students, ignoring the snickers.

Small price to pay, she thinks, balancing on the edge of her sneaker, for her next hit.

Because there is nothing better than the pure exuberance of a job well done, the sensation amplified by the joy on Scott’s face and the way his laughter shakes his frame as he wraps her up in a hug, swinging her around on the ice.

It’s there, in his arms, surrounded by his joy, where she can finally breathe.

The crash, then, is all the more painful.

* * *

Tessa and Scott are outside, taking advantage of one of the last warm days of autumn, while they wait for Alma to pick them up from Waterloo and shuttle them back home.

A breeze rustles the pages of Tessa’s book, distracting her from the words on the page.  As she smooths them down, she peeks over the top of the pages, watching Scott.

He’s with Alex, one of the other figure skaters on his hockey team.  Scott’s face scrunches up with laughter, loud enough that even she can hear it, when he pushes Alex.  Alex flexes his biceps in response, and Scott’s smirk is daring, before both the boys are on the ground, matching each other push up for push up.

Megan, a singles skater who is a few years older than them, walks past on her way to the car. When the boys notice, they redouble their efforts, Scott winking at her as Alex tries valiantly to hold on, arms shaking - until he collapses.

Megan stops to watch Scott bang out a few extra push ups.  His body arcs gracefully as he gets to his feet, leaning against a sign post and crossing his arms.  He must be flirting, Tessa thinks, because Megan giggles and blushes, tucking her hair behind her ear.  Scott shoots Alex a victorious look.

Tessa rolls her eyes and turns back to her book, ignoring the way her stomach twists.

* * *

Scott invites her to his thirteenth birthday party.  When he pressed the invitation into her hand after practice, there was a brief moment where she wondered if Alma really had sent it.  But then he had smiled at her, and said he really hoped she could make it, and she hadn’t even looked at the date when she said she’d absolutely be there, wouldn’t miss it for the world.

From her vantage point at the corner of the porch, she casts her eyes around the loud group of teenagers jostling in the backyard, a boom box providing the music. A few people mingle by the food, while the rest dance.  It’s easy to spot Scott – dead center of the dance floor, laughing with a friend, before he reaches out to pull a girl in, encouraging her to dance with him. Tessa swears she can see the sparks of joy exploding from him, radiating outwards and warming everyone around him.  He’s happy.

With a sigh, she turns and heads indoors: to the couch in the basement, where the mattress is still pushed up against the wall from her and Scott’s lift practice earlier.  She’s aware that she’s retreating. But there’s a center, deep within her, silent in the way she wishes the whole world was. Sitting here in the dark, she can fold herself into it, her emotions, her needs.

She reminds herself that he wants her there, that he asked for her to come.  It’s just – she’s learning that he doesn’t belong only to her anymore, not in the way he seemed to when they were seven and nine.  The world is larger than Tessa-and-Scott, no matter how much time they spend together on the ice.

Slowly, the tension in her body dissipates.  She curls in the corner of the sectional, legs tucked under her body, and her eyes slide closed.

Tessa wakes up with her face pressed against Alma’s shoulder, a blanket tucked around her, and the bright light of the television flickering from across the room

“Hey, sleepy girl,” Alma says lightly.  

A blush warms Tessa’s cheeks as she sits up, pulling away from Alma. “Oh no, I’m so sorry!  I didn’t mean… how long have I kept you down here?”

The warm smile on Alma’s face assuages the rush of guilt Tessa feels.  Alma wraps her arm around Tessa and pulls her back down onto her. Her reply rumbles through her chest, easy for Tessa to understand.  “Don’t worry; I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Tessa’s stiff against her at first, tense.  But slowly, she relaxes, leaning her head more fully onto Alma, then winding her arms around Alma’s midsection.  Alma presses a light kiss to the top of her head, and Tessa’s eyes water.

She’s not sure how she got so lucky as to have two mothers.

* * *

The ice, Tessa thinks, is the last refuge.  The last place she understands Scott Moir: that furrow of the brow when he’s picking up new choreographic elements; the curious tilt of his head as he studies Paul’s skates when their coach demonstrates the necessary precision of blade placement; the tick of his jaw when he clenches his teeth in frustration.  She knows the way his anger builds, shimmering just beneath the surface, can pinpoint when it’ll erupt, rushing out over the ice and sending shockwaves crawling up the back of her neck.

The ice is the last place he understands her – or nearly so.  Because Tessa’s harboring a secret. A secret that burns inside her, scorching, that sits on the tip of her tongue, just waiting to be shouted out.

Tessa’s holding him back.

The truth rests there, heavy, an anvil on her heart.  No matter how many medals litter her bedroom walls, the strength of his natural ability carries their team to success.  Paul and Suzanne are quick to praise her natural dance ability, but she hears the silent critique: she’s not the natural skater.  This is ice skating; dancing only takes you so far.

Excellence, she finds, is addictive and elusive.  She works extra hours, studies footage, strengthens and conditions in the gym, desperately trying to catch up.  One day, she won’t be good enough. One day, he’ll realize she’s keeping him from true greatness.

Time is never on her side.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Scott yells as Tessa slides off his back and onto one foot, the momentum carrying her away from him.  He kicks at the ice with his toe pick, carving a deep divot, and she winces. “Why the fuck can’t I get that right?”

Tessa slips up behind him, running a hand along his back, soothing, “Hey, listen, it’s not your fault, I –“

He shakes her hand off his back.  “God, T, I know it’s not my fault!”

Tessa stares at him, open mouthed and horrified.  Her heart constricts as he turns away from her. It’s taken this long, but… now he knows.

“Okay!” Suzanne’s hand on her shoulder jolts her back to the present.  “Okay, both of you, my office, right now.” A fierce glare from Suzanne silences any complaint from Scott.  “I’ll be there in a second.”

Orders from coaches Tessa obeys without question, and she skates over to the boards immediately, snapping on her hard guards and walking quickly towards Suzanne’s office.  She doesn’t wait for Scott; she doesn’t think she can look at him right now.

Suzanne’s office once served as a costume closet, and Tessa loves it.  The small space is cozy, filled with a small wooden desk, a large bookcase, and three mishmashed chairs, likely the result of dumpster dives.  Tessa’s second favorite place in the world – right behind center ice at Ilderton Arena – is the overstuffed blue armchair in the corner. Suzanne lets her curl up there with a book, an antique floor lamp lighting the pages, while Suzanne works at her desk.  It feels like home: safe, silent companionship. And when Suzanne needs a break, they close the green door, blast music, and dance on the seats of the chairs, competing over who can come up with the most outrageous moves.

But today, the office feels like a prison cell.  Scott brushes by her, flipping a rusted folding chair backwards, and sits with his arms folded across the back of the seat.  It’s his new thing; makes him feel cooler, older. She thinks it makes him look like a thirteen-year-old playing at being an adult.

Tessa pulls her chair over towards the corner, and lifts her feet up onto the chair, hugging her knees to her chest.  The room is full: too much anger contained in too small a space.

She studies him, and he stares at the wood grain on Suzanne’s desk.  His jaw twitches as he clenches it. His knuckles flex, as his nails dig into the skin on his forearms.  Little red half moons linger where he grips. She wants to reach out and soothe the skin, but he’s wound so tight, so ready to explode at anything.

Suzanne comes in, her face serious.  Tessa is so used to a smile on her face that the stark difference is alarming, a woman she doesn’t recognize.  When Suzanne sits, she folds her hands on the wood.

“That cannot happen again.  You are a team.”

Scott’s eyes study the floor.

“Let’s talk about what happened out there.  Who wants to go first?”

Tessa glances towards Scott; of course he will speak first, he always does.  But when he makes no moves to begin, her eyes dart to Suzanne. A small nod encourages her.

“It’s my fault,” she explains.  “I keep moving before he knows I’m going to – maybe I don’t hear the music, or I’m not getting enough momentum on the steps beforehand to get into a locked position.  I don’t know. But I move, and it’s putting him off balance. And then he’s trying to save me, instead of executing the lift, and it messes it all up.”

Scott turns to look at her, a little bit of shock on his face, before looking back at Suzanne.  “No, she’s wrong, she’s taking too much of the blame.”

“Scott, you said it yourself! It’s not your fault.”

“I was wrong, okay?!  I was mad. I was mad I suck.  But it’s my fault, I’m too far forward and it’s leaving me with too much drag from the pick.”

Tessa interjects.  “You’re only forward because I’m pushing you forward!”

“Tessa, I swear…” He shakes his head, looks at Suzanne as though she could confirm it.  “Don’t make me say it again.”

“But it is me!”

Suzanne waves her hand once.  “Okay!” She breathes deeply. “Let’s talk about communication.”

Scott rolls his eyes.  “Communication. Here we go again.”

“Shhh, Scott,” Tessa protests, mumbled.

Suzanne studies the pair carefully, before leaning forward.  “Yes, communication. Words are important. You,” she says, turning in Scott’s direction, “have to be careful with your words so as not to hurt your partner.  And you,” she says, turning in Tessa’s direction, “need to verbalize your thoughts – out loud, and without being overly self-critical.”

Tessa shrinks under Suzanne’s scrutiny.  It wasn’t self-critical, she wants to shout, it was honest.  For once, she was honest. Scott doesn’t mess up, he never messes up; he’s the natural skater.

Suzanne sighs.  “In this case, you’re both right.  Scott, you’re already forward, so when Tessa moves – regardless of whether she moved early, which she did – you’re thrown off.  What helps normally for teams is a concept called ‘key words’. Basically, it allows you to remind your partner of something with a simple word, or sync up your connection again.  You need to develop these but…”

She glances at Tessa quickly in the silence.  It’s the only moment Tessa’s ever felt pity from Suzanne, and resentment flares, hot and quick, burning in her stomach.  Suzanne continues. “I think what’ll work best for your team is physical signals.”

Tessa frowns, trying to push down her anger, capture it in the little box she shoves her emotions into. “We can use words just like everyone else. I’ll figure it out. I can lip read him.”

Suzanne covers gracefully, saying something about how it’s actually better if they use physical signals since other teams won’t be able to work out the movements.  This might just give them the edge, she reasons, but her hands twist together on the desk. Tessa swallows hard against the lump in her throat. She gets it. Key words are designed to be said under your breath, designed to be heard and not seen, and she can’t hear them.

She bristles. “Well then, I can say them to Scott and, I don’t know, he can use movement back for me. Or I’ll just know what he wants.”

Suzanne’s smile is meant to be kind, but instead it’s an insult, a slap across her face. “You really should both have the same methods of communication.”

Tessa’s fingers skitter across her skin.  She squeezes her thighs tightly once, twice, before leaping from the armchair. “I have to go to the bathroom. Maybe I be excused?”  She turns without waiting for an answer and twists past the items in her way until she’s outside.

It’s rage, coursing through her veins, as she tries to control her pace, slow her breathing.  Rage, because she knows Suzanne is right, and rage, because her whole life is just accommodations for her disability, and restrictions because of her disability.  Her whole life is dictated by this one thing she can’t control.

She wishes to high heavens she could feel limitless.

Strong arms wrap around her from behind.

She knows who it is without even turning to look. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, leaning into his body, resting her head back against his chest so she can feel the vibration of his reply.

“It’s okay.”

They stand like this for a moment, and Tessa soaks in the warmth and comfort of his presence.  Lately, Scott thinks hugging her is weird and awkward , even if she is his best friend, so he doesn’t do it as much.  But Tessa never feels so safe as when she’s in his arms.

He rubs up and down her arm once.  “You think you’re ready to go back in? Suz seemed pretty sad she made you so upset.”

Tessa sighs, pulling away. “I guess. I don’t want to do this, Scott.”

Scott grabs her shoulders and looks into her eyes. “Hey,” he says. “You and I, though, that’s how we’re going to get gold. This is just a way there.”

He extends his hand. She takes it.

And slowly, they build a language they both can speak.

* * *

Excellence, she finds, means nothing to your peers if you’re starting Grade 9 at a new school and you’re a year younger than everyone else and still missing two teeth.

The crowd of students streams all around her, shouting each others’ name as their bookbags jostle her shoulders.  Tessa stands still in the midst of the chaos, staring up at the imposing gray stone building, running her tongue over the gap in her teeth.

Breathing in, she enters.

The day passes in a blur.  Her new school is okay. Sure, her lunch company was a book, but who wouldn’t want to devour the latest fantasy novel?  And sure, students might’ve smirked in her direction occasionally, and maybe she saw a note or two being passed out of the corner of her eye, but she’s too busy watching her interpreter as he signs her teachers’ lectures to her to concentrate on it.

As she rushes out of the building, her skate bag bouncing against her thigh and her backpack on her back, she shields her eyes and looks around.  There is Scott, standing by the bus stop, his hand raised in greeting. Her feet fly over the steps, taking them two at a time.

Sure, she thinks, as they slide into a seat, four bags thrown on each other’s laps, Grade 9 will be lonely.  But her teachers are nice enough, and books exist… and it’s worth it, she thinks, to be here with Scott.

His hand settles on her knee, squeezing once.  When she glances across, he’s already looking at her, his smile blinding – and she feels the mirror of it spreading across her own face, lingering as she looks back out the window at the scenery passing by.

By the time they get to the rink for their afternoon practice, her cheeks hurt.

* * *

In an old gaudy elevator, bordered with mirrors and gold railings, at a hotel next to the rink hosting Nationals 2003, Tessa Virtue’s life changes forever.

Scott stands next to her, shuffling anxiously.  His sneakers are worn; his blue socks peek through a small ragged hole at the side.  He really ought to be more put together for their first junior championship, she thinks.  Squinting at her reflection, she smooths down her hair, taming the flyaways escaping from her bun.

A jingle signals the opening of the door, and as Tessa glances up to ensure they’re not yet at the lobby, in walk Marie-France Dubreuil and Patrice Lauzon.  As the elevator doors shut, Scott stomps on her foot. She glares at him quickly – she KNOWS, damn it, but that hurt! – and Marie-France’s mouth quirks at the corner.

Scott finds his voice and the three settle into a comfortable conversation, kind smiles gracing Marie-France and Patrice’s face as Scott talks animatedly, leaning towards the pair.  Tessa watches, observing the angles of their lips and trying to pick up pieces of the conversation. Their accents are new to her – she’s not spent enough time in Quebec, clearly – but she smiles at them shyly whenever they glance her way.

She feels warm around them, comfortable.  They don’t seem to judge her for her silence.  Even without her participation, they turn to her often, making her feel a part of a conversation she only halfway understands.

“This is our floor,” Patrice says, pointing to the open doors.  His arm outstretched, he holds the elevator there. “It was lovely to meet you both.”

Marie-France smiles at them both, before making eye contact with Tessa.  Her hand comes up quickly, signing “Nice to meet you”. As they exit, Patch turns around, signing goodbye to the pair.

Tessa freezes, unable to move.  Her mouth slightly agape, her eyes flicker between their hands and the smiles on their faces.  She stays that way even after the elevator doors slide shut, only the jolt of the elevator moving that brings her back to the present.  Tears prickle her eyes, and a smile spreads across her face. It’s the first time anyone from Team Canada has made the effort to learn her language.  She wonders briefly if it’s as exhausting for them to be expected to converse daily in English as it is for her.

The next day, before they take the ice for the free dance, she looks up towards the stands and spots Marie-France and Patrice.  They smile and wave, and when she waves back, Scott looks up too, a grin on his face. “Good luck”, Marie-France signs, and Patrice smiles at them both, flashing a thumbs up.

Tessa grins, signing back her thanks.  Her vision is watery, and she turns away from the stands to wipe slightly under her eyes, trying to avoid disrupting her make-up.

Scott bumps her with his shoulder.  “Hey,” he says, “it’s not that big of a deal.”

She knows he’s trying to be comforting, trying to calm her emotions before they skate, but she shakes her head.  Capturing his eyes, she knows her voice wavers when she answers. “It’s everything, Scott.”

She feels invincible on the center of the ice, in their final pose, while the stands shake as people get to their feet to applaud.  She feels invincible even as they take seventh, off the podium; invincible when, after an hour of arguing, her mother reluctantly agrees to allow her to celebrate their first junior nationals with a navel piercing.

She feels invincible as she studies her reflection in the full-length mirror in the hotel room, flexing her abs.  The light catches the crystals in the barbell and rainbows scatter across the floor.

To her, the piercing represents power and femininity and accomplishment.

She sees Marie-France in her mind, her eyes warm and her movements both powerful and graceful as she moves across the ice.

She thinks maybe, if she puts in the work, the effort, she can see the start of that for herself, in this piercing, in this Nationals performance.

* * *

She carries this with her, this sense of invincibility, even when she feels lost.

Partnership, Tessa learns, sucks sometimes.  She never regrets choosing skating, never regrets choosing Scott, but sometimes she wonders whether their partnership has an expiration date.

On the ice, they work together easily.  Even as they bring different talents, they help each other focus, improving by leaps and bounds because of the other’s strengths.  Tessa helps Scott harness emotionality in his movements, not just his expressions, and Scott helps her better understand how to trust her technique, trust the ice below her, and move with confidence.

On the ice, they are two, operating as one.

Off the ice, they’re strangers.  Oil and water, Tessa thinks, night and day.  It’s hard for them to understand each other.

* * *

Scott runs ahead towards the arena where their latest competition is being held, already clapping the back of some American singles skater he met at their last one.  Tessa drags her feet, longing for the quiet of their home rink.

The constant onslaught of new people exhausts her and excites him. He’s like an energizer bunny, soaking up all the attention.

He turns around, beckons for her to come forward.  He grabs her hand and turns to the guy he was talking to.  “Hey, you remember my partner, Tessa?”

Tessa smiles softly, extending her hand.  “Hey…” she hesitates. “Matthew, right?”

The guy nods, impressed.  “Yeah, actually. I can’t believe you remembered.”

Tessa’s lips quirk, turning up slightly at the corners.  “Scott’s so busy talking that it gives me time to memorize people’s names.”

Matthew eyes the arm that Scott has slung across her shoulders, even as Scott looks around the crowd mingling by the entrance for other people he knows.  “How do you… you two seem so different. How the heck do you put up with him?”

“Hey now, my good looks and charm have to count for something,” Scott interjects.

Tessa’s response is fast.  “And somehow, I put up with him despite all that,” she says, waving a hand in Scott’s direction.  

As they enter the arena, the noise rushes over her, like a wave in the ocean, pulling her under.  It grumbles, shakes, and she’s distracted, trying to figure out where to go or who to listen to.

She turns to Scott.  “You’ll sign us in? I think I’m going to wait outside.”

She knows Scott’s frowning even as she ducks from under his arm and, with a small wave to Matthew, heads back out the door.

Eyes closed, her body bathes in the warmth of the sunlight, the quiet of nature.  She knows Scott will be concerned, but the tension that settled across her shoulders as they entered the arena falls away as she leans against the brick walls of the arena.  Scott wants so desperately for her to love the social element of competition, but she tries to remind him that it’s different for her.

For her, competitions are filled with hundreds of people she ought to be paying attention to, in case they say something important. It’s the potential that the shout that’s broken through is in alarm, not joy. It’s a sponsor who thinks she’s ignoring him and will write Virtue-Moir off the list. It’s the fans who count on her to smile and greet them when they say hello.

It’s a million new lips, moving in endless patterns, and billions of words to fit together in some type of comprehension.

It’s press conferences and snide comments in locker rooms and Kiss & Cries where Scott, Paul, and Suzanne are reacting before the scores are displayed on the board, hearing the booming voice that she recognizes is speaking but can never understand.

It’s exhaustion, deep in her bones, settling across her limbs, pulling her eyes shut, so that by the time her head hits the pillow at night, she’s already asleep.

* * *

Paul’s the one who instigates the biggest change in their skating lives, without knowing what he’s done.

Music selection for the upcoming season is complete, and Tessa and Scott have selected a Russian folk dance for their free.  Tessa’s excited for it; the music is fun and fast, and the footwork is intricate. To help them capture the authenticity, Paul suggests, they ought to call in Marina – a legendary Russian ice dance coach.

She shuffles, shifting her weight from one foot to the next, as Paul explains Marina’s background.  Scott is eager, already saying yes, while Tessa stays silent. She knows why Scott is so enthusiastic about this suggestion.  

In their annual meeting, the meeting where Tessa and Scott – and therefore their families – recommit to skating together for another year, they discussed the future: the future where they compete as seniors and maybe manage to capture a Worlds or Olympic medal.  And the future, her father had signed, might not be with Paul.

This, she knows, is an opportunity for them to test out Marina, see how well she could help them get to the next stage.

When Paul finally turns to her, asking her opinion, she nods her agreement.

“Great!  Then it’s settled.  I’ll get her to come up next week.”

* * *

They’re in the middle of practicing choreography when Scott lets go of her, skating away to the boards.

A moment later she sees what Scott must’ve – a woman with a severe haircut, eyes narrowed and a frown on her face, clapping. Marina.  

A blush spreads across Tessa’s face as she skates over to join Scott at the boards, embarrassed that she’s already made a poor impression on the woman.

Marina talks in clipped tones and a heavy accent.  Her lips are foreign, unfamiliar, and Tessa squints slightly as she tries to keep up with her rapid speech. “I know you do not hear, Tessa.  However, you two are too good for that to limit you or Scott. I do not know how your coaches have dealt with this in the past. But with me, there is no slowing down.”

With a little fear, Tessa squares her shoulders and nods, ignoring the anger that prickles at the base of her neck, wanting to object to some of the mistakes in what Marina’s said.  This isn’t the time for it, and she takes the anger and shoves it back down, letting determination laced with swirls of anxiety fill the space it leaves behind. She won’t back down from the challenge, but she doesn’t know that she’s ready for it.  Next to her, though, she feels Scott bounce on his toe picks.

“Alright,” Marina says, “Show me the first minute.”

Hours pass under the Russian’s critical glare, the snap of her fingers, the biting remarks.  Hours pass where Scott is rewarded with smiles and Tessa with a frown. Hours pass in a blur, until Tessa is wobbling on her feet, missing more words than she’s hearing, until she’s just trying to keep up with Scott, until she’s just trying to stay upright.

“Alright.”  Marina calls.  “Tomorrow, 6 am sharp.”  She nods towards Scott. “Good job.”

Tessa’s heart squeezes, the bitter stain of guilt spreading across her chest as she walks to the shower.  The pound of water warms her skin but cannot quell the nausea she feels at disappointing Marina. Sighing, she dresses in a pair of comfortable leggings and a long-sleeved shirt, looking forward to a quiet evening of yoga and tea at home, before crashing early.

Waiting outside the locker room is Scott, his bag slung across his back.  “Hey,” he says. “You game for a team meeting now?”

Her breath catches.  She thinks longingly about the yoga mat waiting for her in her bedroom, before she nods.

Silence hangs between them in the air, solemn, as they walk to his place.

When they arrive, Tessa collapses on the worn couch in the basement room Scott has claimed as his own, leaning against the armrest and pulling her legs under her.  Soon, Scott rounds the corner, two glasses tucked into the crook of one arm and the other holding a blanket snagged from the living room. He hands one glass over to her and sits, pulling her legs into his lap before laying the blanket over top of them.  Leaning, he clinks their glasses together once and takes a long drag.

Setting it down on the coffee table in front of him – no coaster, Tessa vaguely notes – he reaches out and takes her free hand. Then, he blurs as her tears begin falling.

It’s involuntary.  She knows what’s coming.  They’ve outgrown Paul and Suzanne, reached the limits of what their coaches can do for them.  If they want to keep moving forward, keep amassing a collection of medals, keep pursuing the high of excellence, they have to leave.

They have to leave and go with Marina, to the States, to a rink filled with their closest competitors.

But she desperately doesn’t want to.

Paul is tough yet kind, and Tessa looks up to him.  Suzanne feels like home. She never speaks without resting a hand on Tessa’s shoulder or back, never yells or over-enunciates. She treats Tessa with respect.

“I know,” Tessa says, as Scott runs his thumb over the top of her hand.  “We have to go.”

“Do you think she’d take us?” he asks, the look on his face wishful.

Tessa smiles weakly.  “Did you see her watching you?  She loves you. She wants you there.”  Implicit in that is the converse – that Marina’s frown deepened every time she watched Tessa attempt the step sequences alone, every time Tessa must’ve been just a fraction off the music.  Marina never smiled once, not at a single thing Tessa did, no matter how hard she tried to please her.

Scott will thrive in Canton.  He’s eager for it, already talking about the opportunity to work with Igor, about the famous dancers in Marina’s school, how they’re going to be right alongside them.  He rambles about the opportunities, the independence, the chance to grow! To expand from their humble Canadian beginnings and learn techniques from the Russians, to compete with the Americans, to fight.  Tessa nods at all the right places, and tries to keep the smile on her face from faltering.

He is so excited, and she is so scared.

Because they’re moving across the border to the States, to loud, foreign coaches that will frown and yell and speak a mile a minute in heavy accents that leave her turning to Scott frantically, hoping he’s paid attention because she has no idea what was just said. There will be no warmth and no patience in this camp, only the puritanical pursuit of excellence.

She reminds herself that excellence is the drug she craves.  She shrugs away the thought that she might never truly be excellent.

When Scott hugs her goodbye, she smiles and whispers in his ear, “Ready for the next grand adventure?”  He laughs, and as he high fives her, he replies, “Yes!”

But when she’s home, the clock on her bedside table reading 1:30 am, when she should be sleeping, the tears fall, unrelenting.  She cries, for all they’re losing. For all she’s losing.

They’re moving to Canton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without fail, as always - this chapter exists because of the dedication and hard work of virtueoso, who somehow manages to take my writing and elevate it, every time. Thank you for loving this little thing as much as I do.


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